


Technicolour

by Fira21



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fira21/pseuds/Fira21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Steve always dreams in black and white. Except for Tony. In Steve's dreams, Tony's always in full technicolor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technicolour

The first talking pictures had come out in the 20s. It was a marvel in technological advancement, they said. Some anyway, many ranted and raved about the ruin of a good thing, and how the classics would fall to the wayside. The well-known and loved characters of silent films were slowly disappearing for ludicrous reasons from ‘bad voices’ to ‘forgetting lines’. If there weren’t lines to remember, then they wouldn’t be forgetting them and kids these days wouldn’t forget about the wonder of Blanche Sweet and Mary Pickford.  
  
Steve of course, had been utterly fascinated.  
  
Growing up in the orphanage meant he never had any money. Neither did Bucky really, but Bucky had the choice of working a bit on the side for spare coin. Steve was always too sickly to work. But he apparently had ‘one of those faces’ as Bucky liked to remind him and they often snuck into the theatres. Or walked in. The girl working the counter thought they were adorable and often just let them in. The ushers sometimes kicked them out, but it still meant that Steve and Bucky, whether in spurts or in one go, managed to see just about every picture their theatre got. Until they got older and instead had to rely on Bucky flirting their way into the theatre.  
  
That amount of conditioning is the best explanation he can figure for his situation. There were studies apparently. Numerous ones, about the affects of black and white televisions and the subconscious dreamer.  
  
What it boiled down to is that Steve from as long as he could remember, has dreamed in black and white.  
  
It was never something he thought about for the longest time. Most of his early life was built up of black and white shows, and a black and white life. The Depression was a dark and dismal time, and mixing the dismal living conditions with the downtrodden emotions of the everyday man equalled a city that often seemed washed with the same grey watercolour to match the cobblestones.  
  
War was grey. Mixed with dust. And tears. And more grey. The only colour a vivid bloom of bright cloying red, with a scent that forever burned into your nostrils. A blinding stain on a dirty battlefield and something he did his level best to forget.  
  
He’s grateful often, for the monochromatism. It saves him from remembering that colour in his dreams that he can’t ever forget while awake.  
  
It wasn’t until he was frozen and summarily defrosted that he realized something was off. That most people didn’t dream in black and white. Or at least people his age. His time period yes, his age, no. His strange dreams were yet another oddity about him and another chalk on the board of ‘things that become weird when you’re frozen for 70 years’. Just another thing to explain or ignore, depending on his mood and who asked.  
  
  
  
It was something that Howard had mentioned to him. Colour television. It was still a work in progress and nowadays the word colour was synonymous with television. Now it was a black and white television. TV. TV had meant black and white back before, now it didn’t. He more often than not didn’t bother asking questions and just accepted these things.  
  
Everything familiar had been replaced by something new, and everything new just seemed to him like all the old, but with fancier names and a few more features. As many as possible and for goodness sake what happened to just a regular telephone? He’s still not entirely sure why it’s absolutely necessary his _phone_ also have a clock, a camera, internet connection, those app things, Bluetooth (he’s still not too sure how that works), extra space for word processers, and texting options and really... The entirety of the 21 st century seemed devoted to discovering new and amazing ways to make sure you never had to actually speak to a living person.  
  
Automated voice services were absolutely _horrid_.  
  
It wasn’t any of this though that struck him. Certainly the idea of colour television had thrown him, but he grew up in an age of technological reform, he just has to catch up with the steps.  
  
No it’s not that.  
  
It’s slipping into dreams, and there’s Peggy with her curled hair and pursed lips, a cupid’s bow slanting across her face to smirk at him, her eyes are soft. There’s Bucky teeth flashing bright and brilliant with a smile, dark strands curling into sparkling eyes.  
  
Running and racing, chasing, screaming, laughing, dying, falling. He’s on the field with the Howling Commandos. Dum Dum Dugan’s hat _must_ be glued to his head or something. They’re all packing; the sharp staccato bursts of gunfire echo around him.  
  
He’s in the air watching Bucky fall, plummet a thousand thousand feet. Peggy’s face is swimming around him, tears slipping down her cheeks. He hears a rasping cough and knows it’s his mother, mixing with the Commandos screams of terror and he watches them all fall.  
  
Red Skull has him by the arm and is holding him out from the plane. He dangles a thousand thousand feet and he sees sharp teeth jutting from a gaping maw that cackles at him as he’s swung back and forth teasingly over ice and snow. He’s going to fall. Going to drop and there’s nothing he can do. His body is like lead, he tries to swing his arm out to met face with fist and can barely twitch his fingers. He’s heavy and unwieldy. He’s moving through molasses, but it’s ice water. He’s gasping for air and sucking in water. He’s falling.  
  
In his peripheral is bright, blinding red.  
  
In the moments before waking, all he sees is red and gold, gold and red, and metal that should be freezing is inside warm and humming with life as it grabs his arm and lifts him up and out.  
  
He passes out to red and gold. Gold and red. _Tony_.  
  
He wakes in his bed still gasping and as he wipes the tears from his face, he wonders how his grey has been infused with life. With _colour_.  
  
 _Tony_.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote for the [Avengers Kinkmeme](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=8452741#t8452741). And kept it Gen. I thinks that's not supposed to be the point. XD


End file.
